Birds of a Feather

“Where and when did you meet?”

  “Just before the war broke out I was in Switzerland, mountaineering with some chums. Lydia and Charlotte, being the daughters of poor boys made good, were at a second-tier finishing school there. We met at one of those yodel-odel-odel matinee social events.”

  “So you knew Lydia, Charlotte, and their other friends as well?”

  “Yes. There were four of them in their little group. Lydia, Charlotte, Philippa, and wispy little Rosamund. I expect you know that Philippa is also dead. That’s why they think it’s me. Because I met with Philippa on a couple of occasions when I was back in the country.”

  “I see.” Maisie would return to Philippa Sedgewick later. First she wanted to learn how well Fisher had known each woman. “Did you see the girls in this group often in those days, Mr. Fisher?”

  Fisher held the umbrella between them, but put out his hand to feel the air.

  “Might as well put this away.” He collapsed the umbrella, and continued. “All right, I confess, my friends and I wooed all of them.” Fisher sighed. “Look, Miss Dobbs, we were three young men in Europe, unchaperoned, meeting four young women who, it seemed, managed to lose their chaperone at every opportunity. What do you think? I courted every one of them. Charlotte was a bit too spoiled for me, frankly. Too many airs and graces. Rosie—not my type, I’m afraid. She was the one who always feared they’d be caught.” Fisher laughed again in a manner that Maisie found distasteful. “Philippa fell in love with me, but she got on my nerves. I was twenty-two with the world at my feet—literally—so the last thing I wanted was a weeping willow at my door. I’m afraid I broke her heart.”

  Maisie remembered the weeping willow at the side of the Sedgewick house, and Philippa’s almost secret haven behind the fronds of yellow leaves.

  “And Lydia?”

  “Lydia was the most fun. A good time was always had by all when Lydia was around, in those days anyway.”

  “When did you marry?”

  “We met again after the war.”

  “Had you been in France?”

  Fisher laughed. “Oh God, no. I joined an expedition to South America in May 1914. I’d tried to join Shackleton’s little joy ride to Antarctica. Just as well I didn’t, isn’t it? They went through hell in the ice, then when they got back no one wanted to know about them. While they were trying to keep warm, I was poking around in ruined temples and swatting at flies. I returned in 1919 with no money, but I did have some good stories that didn’t include trenches.”

  Maisie checked herself. Though the conversation was necessary, and Fisher was clearly enjoying her attention, she detested his attitude.

  “I engineered contact with Lydia again; by that time she had come into her inheritance. We were married within the year.” Fisher was silent and suddenly thoughtful. “Look, Miss Dobbs, I’ll be honest with you: Having a wife with money was attractive to me. I knew that if we were married, I could travel and enjoy a certain freedom that would be impossible otherwise. But I also thought it would be more fun than it turned out to be.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Fisher kicked at a pebble on the pavement. “By the time I returned, it was clear that Lydia enjoyed a drink. I couldn’t remember her touching any more than a half glass of Glühwein in Switzerland, but in the interim she had obviously taken to wine by the bottle. I didn’t realize how serious it was at first, but later it was a relief when a new expedition came along. Off I went at a dash. As time went on she acquired a taste for those fashionable new cocktails. Now, I like a drink myself, but this was beyond the pale. I tried to get in contact with her old friends for advice and help, but they’d lost touch. Lydia never said anything definite, but I think they had argued before the end of the war. Probably about Lydia’s drinking. I did meet Philippa a couple of times in the weeks before she was murdered, as I said, but, frankly, she wasn’t very helpful. I wanted her to speak to Lydia, try to get her to dry out.”

  “And did they meet?”

  “No. Philippa said she would, then bagged out. I have to admit, I all but lost my temper. I mean, to let a silly little row get in the way. Women!” He shook his head. “Anyway, my pleas were met with a very cowardly ‘You don’t understand.’ By that time, of course, our marriage had fallen apart completely. If you must know, I clung to the money, and Lydia clung to the nearest bottle. Apparently, she even invited some Cockney tyke up to the house for a drink on the evening she was killed. I’ve heard he’s off the hook, though. Probably the man I saw when I went in to get my luggage. By the way—I’m not telling you anything I haven’t already told the police.”

  Maisie nodded and continued. “You were at the house on the day your wife died?”

  “For about five minutes. Lydia was in her cups, so I left again pretty sharpish, taking my belongings with me. The marriage was over.”

  “I see.” Maisie gave nothing away about Billy’s visit, and paused before her next question to Fisher. “And you are sure you never saw Charlotte Waite after Switzerland?”

  “No. The others didn’t even come to our wedding. Mind you, I don’t actually know if they were invited. I just smiled and said ‘Thank you’ throughout the whole thing.”

  “And did your wife ever say anything about Charlotte?”

  “Oh, I think she might have come to the house, and Lydia mentioned that she was kept on a close rein by her father. Absurd situation, if ever there was one. I cannot wait until they find the murderer and I can get back to Africa—or anywhere else as far away from this freezing miserable place as possible!”

  They crossed the road to Temple underground station. “And you’re sure there’s nothing more you can tell me about Charlotte Waite, Mr. Fisher?”

  Magnus Fisher shook his head. “No. Nothing. With Stratton and his bulldog, the slobbering Caldwell, at my heels, my concern is self-preservation at the moment, Miss Dobbs.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Fisher.”

  “Mind you, there is one thing.”

  “Yes, Mr. Fisher?”

  “Won’t you have supper with me, as soon as the police are off my back?”

  Maisie’s eyes opened wide, so that even behind her spectacles her indignation was obvious. “Thank you for the invitation, but I think not, Mr. Fisher. In fact, some time spent in mourning might not do you any harm at all.”

  And though he had just given Maisie a considerable amount of information to contemplate, she inclined her head curtly and left Magnus Fisher standing outside Temple underground station.

  To cool her temper Maisie walked briskly toward The Strand, where she turned left, making her way to Southam Street and Covent Garden.

  “The cheek of it!” she muttered under her breath. “And his wife’s body isn’t yet cold!” But though she found him to be quite detestable, Fisher had not emanated an air of menace. She doubted if he cared enough about anything, even money, to kill for it.

  Walking through the market, which was less frenetic now that the morning’s business was done, soothed Maisie. It reminded her of her father, who would sometimes bring her to the market with him early in the morning when she was a child. She would laugh at porters moving to and fro with six, seven, eight, or ten round baskets of fruit and vegetables perched on their heads, and the air was always sweetly salty with the smell of sweating horses pulling heavy carts.

  She descended into the depths of Covent Garden underground, taking the Piccadilly Line to Leicester Square, then the Northern Line to Warren Street, where she emerged.

  “Morning, Miss Dobbs. In a rush today?” Jack Barker doffed his cap as Maisie walked quickly past him.

  “Always busy, Mr. Barker.”

  Maisie slammed the door behind her, causing Billy to jump.

  “Blimey, Miss! Gawd, you scared the daylights out of me.”

  “I’m sorry, Billy. I just met with Magnus Fisher. Not the most savory person in the world, though he was useful.” Maisie removed her coat and walked over to the table where Billy was working. She placed s
everal more index cards on the table.

  “I jotted these down while I was on the train.”

  Billy began to read. “Oh, so—”

  A sudden thud on the window made Maisie and Billy start. Maisie gasped and held her hand to her chest.

  “What the—”

  “Stupid bloomin’ pigeon!”

  “Pigeon?”

  Billy walked over to the window. “Not to worry. ’e didn’t top ’im-self. Probably flyin’ around with a bit of a bump on ’is ’ead though. Stupid bird.”

  “Was it a pigeon, then, Billy?”

  “Certainly was, Miss. They do that sometimes, fly into windows.”

  “Well, I hope that doesn’t happen too often.”

  “My old Mum would’ve been goin’ to pieces if she’d been ’ere. Always said that a bird in the ’ouse, or tryin’ to get inside, came with a message from the dead.”

  “Oh, just what I wanted to hear!”

  “Nah, Miss, nothing to worry about. Old wives’ tale, it is. Me, well, I can’t stand birds. Hate the bloomin’ things, ever since the war.”

  The telephone began to ring, and Billy walked over to Maisie’s desk. “Billy—why since the—” Maisie stopped speaking as Billy picked up the receiver.

  “Fitzroy f—” Billy was interrupted while trying to give the telephone number. “Yes, sir. Oh, that is good news, sir. Yes, I’ll put her on.” Billy cupped his hand over the receiver.

  “Who is it, Billy?”

  “It’s that Detective Inspector Stratton. All pleased with ’imself. They’ve just arrested the fella who murdered them women.”

  Maisie took the receiver, greeted Stratton, and listened carefully, punctuating his news with “Really?” and “I see” along with “Very good!” and “But—” before endeavoring to deliver her final comment.

  “Well, Inspector, I must offer congratulations, however, I do feel—”

  There was an interruption, during which Maisie ran her fingers through tendrils of black hair that had once again escaped the pins securing her tresses in an otherwise neat chignon. Billy leaned over the case map while listening to Maisie’s half of the conversation.

  “That would be lovely, Inspector. Tomorrow? Yes. All right. Schmidt’s at noon. Of course. Yes. I look forward to it.”

  Maisie replaced the receiver and returned to the table near the window. She took up a pencil, which she tapped on the paper.

  “So, good news, eh, Miss?”

  “I suppose you could call it that.”

  “Is there anything wrong?”

  Maisie turned to Billy. “Nothing wrong, really.”

  “Phew. I bet a few women will answer their doors a little easier for that news, don’t you?”

  “Perhaps, Billy.”

  “Well, who is it? Anyone we know?”

  “They have just arrested Magnus Fisher at his hotel. I only left him just over an hour ago. Stratton could not disclose details of the evidence. And by the way, Billy, keep quiet about this, as news hasn’t reached the press yet. Stratton said that there was a witness to Fisher entering the Cheyne Mews house on the evening of his wife’s death, and that he’d been having an affair with Philippa Sedgewick.” Maisie clasped her hands and rested her lips against her knuckles.

  “Whew, would you believe it?” Billy noticed Maisie’s furrowed brow. “It sounded like you ’ad a few crossed words with ol’ Stratton.”

  “I wouldn’t say ‘crossed,’ Billy, but I did try to caution him.”

  “Caution ’im? Why?”

  Maisie looked at Billy, her midnight blue eyes piercing through his puzzlement.

  “Because, Billy, in my opinion Detective Inspector Stratton has arrested a man who is innocent of the crime of murder.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Maisie made her way along Charlotte Street toward Schmidt’s.

  The day was once again changeable and brisk, so she wore her mackintosh over the new black dress. She had changed three times before leaving the house this morning, considering not only lunch with Detective Inspector Stratton but the meeting that afternoon with Joseph Waite. As she dressed she was aware of feeling in her stomach and legs that she attributed to anxiety. Though she looked forward to seeing Stratton, she was disappointed at the peremptory way in which he had brought the case of the murdered women to a close. She felt that a grave error had been made. Was this the source of the physical sensations that seemed to render her temporarily dizzy on two occasions before she left the house?

  Now, as she walked along the gray flagstones, heat seemed to rise up through her body. She felt faint. She quickly turned into a side street and leaned against a brick wall for support. As she breathed deeply, her eyes closed, Maisie hoped that no one attempted to inquire after her health, or to assist her. I feel as if my foundations have been rocked, thought Maisie. She opened her eyes and gasped, for it seemed that her surroundings had changed, although they remained the same. As she tried to focus her gaze, it was as if she were looking at a picture that had been hung incorrectly, a picture that she could not quite set straight. Up a bit . . . no, down a bit . . . to the left . . . too much, just a hair right . . . And as she continued to look, the picture changed, and now she saw the Groom’s Cottage at Chelstone. Then it vanished.

  Regaining her composure, Maisie stood away from the wall, keeping one hand outstretched, touching the bricks. As confidence in her stability returned, she walked slowly into Charlotte Street. Maisie brushed off the interlude, telling herself that it served her right for skipping breakfast. Frankie Dobbs would have had something to say about that! “Breakfast, my girl, is the most important meal of the day. You know what they say, Maisie: ‘Breakfast like a king, lunch like a lord, and dinner like a pauper.’ Key to bein’ as fit as a fiddle, is that.” But as she saw Stratton in the distance, waiting for her outside Schmidt’s, Maisie decided to telephone Chelstone after luncheon. Perhaps the foal had been born by now. Perhaps. . . .

  Maisie poked a fork into the rich German sausage, which was served with cabbage and potatoes.

  “Miss Dobbs, I’m glad to be away from the Yard this afternoon, if only for an hour,” said Stratton. “Since news of the arrest was published in the newspapers, we’ve been deluged. Of course, I give Caldwell credit for inserting the final piece of the jigsaw puzzle.”

  Maisie continued to clutch her knife and fork, but she could not eat. “Inspector Stratton, I think you—and Sergeant Caldwell—are mistaken.”

  Stratton leaned back in his chair. “Miss Dobbs, I know that you have certain skills in this field.”

  “Thank you, Inspector. It’s just that”—Maisie set down her cutlery onto her plate—“I think there has been a rush to judgment.”

  Stratton straightened his tie. “Look, if you’ve evidence that I am not aware of . . . ?”

  Maisie considered the white linen handkerchief and asked herself whether the delicate items held within could be termed “evidence.” But evidence of what? She had made an assessment of Fisher’s character based on a single interview, of Philippa Sedgewick’s on the word of her husband. The police case against Fisher was based on concrete fact.

  “No, Inspector. I have nothing tangible.”

  Stratton sighed. “I respect your work, Miss. Dobbs. But we are all wrong at times, and this time the evidence points to Fisher. Even if he were not having an affair with the Sedgewick woman, and his communication with her was regarding his wife as he claims, he had been seen with her on several occasions. We believe that the Sedgewick woman knew he was after his wife’s money so she represented a risk to him. And we know, Miss Dobbs, that the mind of the killer may not be rooted in reality. They think they can get away with it. In Fisher’s case he knew what he wanted—ultimately the money— and he thought he could take it once his wife was dead, and then leave the country.”

  “But the method—”

  Stratton raised his right hand before taking up his knife again.

  “Fisher has no shortage of tools,
in view of his work, which seems to be something between archaeologist, raconteur and inveterate gambler. He was always in debt to someone somewhere, and Mrs. Fisher was an heiress. He stood to inherit the lot at her death.”

  “Has Spilsbury positively identified the weapon?”

  Stratton cut into the thick sausage on his plate and speared a piece on his fork, along with some red cabbage.

  “Yes. The bayonet from a short-barrel Lee Enfield rifle. Standard issue in the war. And—surprise, surprise—something that Fisher kept among the tools I just mentioned. Bit of a cheek, considering he was nowhere near the battlefield. Of course his story is that he has several items that are not usually employed by archaeologists, but he uses them for the ooh-ahh effect from the audience of fearless travelers that accompany him. According to Fisher, poking around a pile of old bones in the sand with the tip of a bayonet keeps the intrepid followers happy and gives them something to talk about at the dinner table when they get back to Britain. The evidence against him is strong. I’m sure we will have a confession soon.”

  Maisie, who had barely touched her food, could not face another bite. “Inspector, I have the impression that you are more than usually intent on securing a conviction.”

  Stratton tried not to reveal his exasperation.

  “The man killed his wife, Miss Dobbs. And he killed another man’s wife. He is a murderer, and he should hang for it!”

  Maisie wondered if he was allowing his personal history to affect the outcome of this case. After all, Stratton, like John Sedgewick, was a man who had lost his wife.

  Stratton settled the bill.

  “Thank you for lunch, Inspector Stratton.”

  “You are most welcome, Miss Dobbs. Indeed, I hope you are successful, though I do wish you would try to avoid becoming involved in investigations that should have been referred to the police.”

  “That is my client’s choice. It seems to me that such involvement would have represented a waste of police time.”

  Stratton ran his fingers around the brim of his hat before placing it on his head. “Perhaps we could meet again for lunch, or supper?”